


Beyond Believing

by MartyWill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John rescues Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock is 'dead', Smut, after season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 02:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartyWill/pseuds/MartyWill
Summary: Sherlock is 'gone', and John has to find him. Slow burn includedJust started today, so we'll see where this leads. Sorry if it will take a while, but exams are around the corner so yeah. Unfortunately, priorities.





	1. Chapter One

John heart ached. He felt his eyes become glazy. Appointments with his therapist had not been so difficult since he returned from Afghanistan. He thought time would heal some wounds, as it did before; but he had needed Sherlock to overcome the darkest days of his life, and now he was back at the same place the detective was not there to do it again. He had fallen. It had been over a year now, but the grief still struck him every evening, and even harder after he walked out of every session. He took his usual route to Regent park, where the darkness of the December nights gave him the privacy to stroll in quiet, and let his tears and thoughts take their course.

He had moved out of 221b Bakerstreet a few months after Sherlocks death. At first, the detective’s chair, Billy, even the smell of their place brought him comfort. It brought him hope. Hope that it was just one elaborate scheme. That Sherlock was not really dead. Every time someone came up the stairs to their apartment his heart made a little jump. His mind briefly went over the possibility that Sherlock could just waltz in, with his coat and scarf, and that everything would go back to normal. However, Sherlock never came. During the first few weeks Mycroft had walked in to check on him, as did Lestrade, Molly and Mrs Hudson. They all had their own grief, but somehow, they sensed that John really was lost. But as time passed, so did the visits. Mycroft disappeared first, as John had entirely expected of him. He was surprised he showed up in the first place. After a month or so, John finally realized that it really happened; and anger overtook him. Greg and Molly’s visit slowed down significantly after that. He could not blame them really. After all they were his target most of the time, coming second after Mrs Hudson, and take on all the emotion and frustration he bottled up after Sherlock’s death. At a certain point, he gathered it would become too much for them, and he asked them to stop coming until he felt better. But that point never came. 

In the next couple of months, John became quite a recluse. He started working again, and Sarah made sure that she took over the appointment of any young man that resembled the detective in some way. John felt glad about the gesture, but it did not make him take the time to talk to any of his co-workers more than necessary. When the day was done, he swiftly headed back to 221b and tried to cope with everything he felt. On his days off, he would resume his therapy sessions, which left him feeling hollower than when he entered the room. Fiona, his new therapist kept reminding him about the idea that Sherlock really was gone, and he was not yet ready to accept that fact. He kept thinking about all the things that he could have done differently. He should have known. He should have seen beyond Moriarity’s plans. He should not have left to check up on Mrs Hudson. Sherlock almost killed the CIA agent that laid a finger on her, if he really perceived that their landlady was in that much danger he would have acted differently. But most of all, John could not forget the fight they had on the subject the last time they spoke face to face. He would never forgive himself that. 

Over time, the doctor came to realize that residing in 221b was not doing him any good. Within a week, he had packed his stuff, said his goodbyes to Mrs Hudson, and moved into a small flat along the Thames. It was nothing special, just a bare room with a bed and a desk. His sig was placed in the drawer, and his laptop was placed on the bureau; with the plan to write a memoire of Sherlock’s life, to clear his name and honour him when the time was right. John felt a pit in his stomach thinking about his plans on writing a memoir. He had not been able to find a right starting point, and every time he got behind his laptop tears started running over his face. 

A gush of cold wind startled the doctor out of his thoughts. He looked at his watch. 8 o’clock, he had been walking for over two hours. He had barely noticed how his hands had turned to the feeling temperature of an iceberg, but apparently it happened. John shrugged, and made his way out of the park. When he got to the road, a familiar black vehicle was waiting for him. One he had not seen in over a year. Mycroft stepped out of the car; ‘Get in doctor Watson’ the older Holmes ordered. John felt more like screaming at the man for showing up out of the blue, but creating a scene with all the passerby’s was also not on his list of ideal situations. He shot an insincere polite smile to the older Holmes, he was sure would be noticed, and stepped into the dark Chevrolet.


	2. Chapter 2

It did not take more than 30 seconds for the car to get moving again. The outside windows were blinded, as was the small window between the front and the back seat. Mycroft was sitting next to John, not even bothering to fasten his seatbelt. He had positioned his umbrella between them, creating some sort of invisible barrier for his personal space. John had managed to swallow his anger, or at least keep it down for the moment. He glared at Mycroft, who at that moment took the liberty to clear his throat. ‘I know it has been a long-time doctor Watson, but let’s skip the formalities shall we’. John looked at the older Holmes with a neutral face. Somewhere deep down he had missed these conversations, they reminded him of a time long gone. However, he was not about to show any signs of this to Mycroft. ‘Well lets get right to it then, what the fuck is so important that you are kidnapping me again?’ John sighed. ‘It is not like I can update you one the whereabouts of your younger brother, now can I?’. Mycroft looked him straight in the eye. His blue eyes pierced John’s. An expression shot over his face that John could not place, but within the blink of an eye the older Holmes usual mask was back in place. ‘Well, swearing here is certainly inadequate John’. Mycroft paused for a second, as he was trying to find the right words. ‘I cannot tell you, but once we have arrived at our destination I will make sure to inform you fully. I see you have packed your gun as always. Good. You are going to need it’. 

The car ride took an hour and a half, and Mycroft had said nothing more since his ridiculous riddle. If looks could kill, John’s probably would have. He wanted answers. Not being kidnapped. He knew he was not doing too well mentally, and the thought had crossed him that Mycroft was planning to send him to some god forsaken ministry “as he was becoming a danger to his own health”. However, as fast as the idea came up it disappeared again, as John remembered that the older Holmes rarely did anything out of compassion. Mycroft needed John. Somehow. That puzzle had kept John busy, and as the car came to a halt he had an idea of the distinct possibilities of why he ended up in the Chevrolet. 

When they both got out of the car, they were in the middle of nowhere. Fields stretched out on all sides, accompanied by a 360 view of miles and miles of nothingness. Right in front of them, stood an old water tower which probably had not been used since the Victorian times. John was admiring the architecture, when he noticed that Anthea stepped out of the passenger seat, blackberry in hand. The mumbled something to the driver through the open window, and the car speeded off in the direction they came from. Mycroft’s personal assistant walked to the small door in front of them, and put her hand in the middle. Without a second to spare, the door automatically opened. She gently motioned for Mycroft and John to get in the room before her. As Anthea was the walk in, she put her other hand on the wall. Without a warning, the room began to move. John looked around with a puzzling look on his face. Then it dawned on him. They were standing in a fucking elevator which was moving downwards.

After quite a few dark looming and endless hallways and several turns, they stood in front of a black high tech door. This time, Mycroft stepped forward. The older Holmes took a key out of his pocket, and unlocked the door. Several mechanisms clicked out of place before the door opened automatically. Mycroft strode in. John looked back, his eyes finding Anthea’s. With an airy gesture she motioned John to follow her boss. As John stepped into the dim lit room, Anthea followed, flicked on some more lights, and closed the door behind her.

John crooked one eyebrow up and glanced at Mycroft. He tall man had taken a seat behind a dark mahogany desk, which John deduced from the looks of it clearly belonged to him. Anthea leaned against the door, blackberry in hand. She seemed to be typing away on her phone – how she got any cell service in here was beyond Johns comprehension. John took one of the wooden seats across from Mycroft, the desk situated between them, while he took in his surroundings. The room had the size of a big office. The walls were covered in a dark green paint, and accompanied with large paintings framed in an odd baroque style and shone upon by downlights. There was a light on the desk, along with a fountain pen and a manila folder. John was just about to make a mental note to criticize Mycroft on his horrible taste in dark orange carpeting, when the older Holmes cleared his throat again. 

‘For someone so stricken with grief, you have certainly pushed it aside at the moment doctor Watson’

John looked at the man in front of him, and could barely repress a growl. He replied. ‘Well Myc’, he never called Mycroft any other than his name, but the look of disgust that shot across Holmes’ face was certainly worth the awkward feeling it gave him. A small smile played on John’s lips as he continued. ‘To be honest, I have no fucking clue what is going on. You picked me up after not talking to me in over a year. You told me I would need my fucking gun. And then you took me to some abandoned water tower turned into James Bond’s secret layer.’ If looks could kill, John’s glance at the moment certainly got close. ‘Really Mycroft, you know me.. at least that is what you pretend to do the entire time. So instead of trying to push my buttons with your obvious deductions, please get to the matter why the fuck I am here with you in a dark room somewhere out of London, and not to mention more than 20 metres underground.’ John took a deep breath and shot Mycroft a expression that hopefully conveyed how he felt. He was not getting played with. Not this tie.

Mycroft looked up and down the doctor with something that John could only label as approval. His eyes caught John’s, and seemed to keep them in place. ‘Well, if you insist’. Then, in a matter of seconds a hardened glance came over them as he added ‘Sherlock is alive, but probably not for long if we do not intervene’. 

A loud gasp sounded in the room, it took a few seconds for John to register it was his own mouth that made that sound. Alive. Alive means not dead. Sherlock is alive. John felt his stomach contract, a pit forming and a black atmosphere consuming him, while at the same time a feeling of rage overtook him. His voice roared through the room and his hand smashed the desk so hard the fountain pen rolled of. ‘HE IS FUCKING WHAT NOW MYCROFT?!?’.


End file.
